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Lieder nach Gedichten von J W von Goethe

Recordings

'The single most welcome element in this recital is Johnson's setting of a pace for each song which perfectly reconciles the demands of Wolf's minutel ...'Hyperion's exemplary devotion to the art of the German Lied continues with this fine recording' (The Sunday Times)» More

Only those who know yearning can fathom grief like mine. Alone and sundered from all joy I scan the skies to the south. Ah! he who loves and knows me is far away. My senses reel, my inmost being burns. Only those who know yearning can fathom grief like mine.

Do you know the land where the lemons blossom, where oranges glow golden among dark leaves? A soft wind breathes from the blue sky, the silent myrtle stands there and the tall laurel. Do you know it? There, there I long to go with you, my love.

Do you know the house? Its roof rests on pillars, the hall shines, the room gleams, and marble statues stand and look at me— What have they done to you, you poor child? Do you know it? There, there I long to go with you, my protector.

Do you know the mountain and its cloudy paths, where the mule seeks its way in the mist; in caves the old brood of the dragons dwells, the rock falls sheer and the torrent over it. Do you know it? There, there lies our way; oh, father, let us go.

Already new growth is breaking up the flower-bed; snow-white snowdrop bells are swaying there, crocuses unfold their intense glow, some budding is emerald, some blood-red. Pert primroses are on parade; roguish violets are assiduously hidden; so much else is stirring and moving; in short, Spring is here, active and alive.

But the richest flowering in all the garden is the sweet disposition of my darling; her ever-glowing glances, stirring song, enlivening talk, an ever open, a blossom-heart, kindly in earnest, and pure in jest. Even though summer brings rose and lily it vies with my love in vain.

Already new growth is breaking up the flowe-bed; tiny bells waver white as snow, crocuses unfold their intense glow, some budding is emerald, some blood-red. Pert primroses are on parade; roguish violets are assiduously hidden; so much else is stirring and moving; in short, spring is here, active and alive.

But the richest flowering in all the garden is the sweet disposition of my darling; her ever-glowing glances, stirring song, enlivening talk, an ever open, a blossom-heart, kindly in earnest, and pure in jest.

Here, where the rose blooms, where vine and laurel entwine, where the turtle-dove calls its mate, where the cicada sings for joy, whose grave is this, so beautifully planted and adorned with life by all the gods? It is Anacreon’s resting-place.

Spring, summer and autumn were enjoyed by the happy poet; and at last this mound has sheltered him from the winter.

In the radiance of dawn how you glow upon me from all sides, beloved Springtime! With a thousandfold bliss of love the holy sense of your eternal warmth presses against my heart, unending beauty! If only I could clasp you in these arms.

Oh, I lie on your breast, I languish, and your flowers, your grass, press against my heart. You cool the burning thirst of my bosom, sweet wind of morning! The nightingale calls me lovingly from the misty valley. I come, I come! But where, oh, where?

Above; I am impelled above. The clouds float down, the clouds descend to my yearning love. To me! To me! In their embrace aloft, enfolding and enfolded! Aloft to your breast, all-loving Father!